


maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too

by Sylv



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Make Up, OT5 Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 16:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylv/pseuds/Sylv
Summary: (even my phone misses your call)“Fuck it,” Zayn murmurs, pressing the icon with a sweaty thumb and taking a long drag of his joint. Self-love has always been so tied up with self-hatred for him anyway. This is hardly the worst thing he’s ever done to himself, on a scale of unhealthy choices.His list of messages appear and he scrolls down, down, down. Down to the messages that aren’t used anymore. Down to the names that still live on the tip of his tongue, even if he never says them anymore.(Or, Zayn tries to make things right. It isn't that easy.)





	maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too

Sleep is a tricky thing.

In a life like the one that he has, jetlag and flipped schedules follow him around doggedly. It’s not unusual for him to go days on end with only three hours of sleep to separate them. The entertainment business is rough on healthy lifestyle habits, for anyone.

It’s the first time in a long while, however, that Zayn doesn’t have any obligations in the morning. Or for the next week. Time off to reset, his manager—and his mother—remind him, is necessary if you’re going to keep a good head on your shoulders. Zayn isn’t sure that he had a good head on his shoulders to start with, but he takes them at their word anyway.

(He knows what happens when you run yourself into the ground.)

Sleep is a tricky little bitch though. He’s lying in bed in his underwear, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to pass out so he can be unconscious for the next twelve hours or so. His darkened ceiling is solidly unimpressed, and Zayn’s eyelids are no heavier than they were an hour ago. Time to resort to old friends.

It takes only a second to find the joint on his bedside table, blue lighter perched happily next to it. With the first sweet lungful he can feel himself relax. Zayn smokes lazily, exhaling through his nose and watching the clouds dissipate into the cool air of his bedroom. His phone lights up on the bed next to him occasionally, with twitter notifications or snaps of people partying. He scrolls through some of it without much interest, and then, without thinking, his thumb is hovering over the messaging icon.

“Do you hate yourself, Malik?” he asks out loud, brows furrowing the longer he stares at his phone.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“Fuck it,” Zayn murmurs, pressing the icon with a sweaty thumb and taking a long drag of his joint. Self-love has always been so tied up with self-hatred for him anyway. This is hardly the worst thing he’s ever done to himself, on a scale of unhealthy choices.

His list of messages appear and he scrolls down, down, down. Down to the messages that aren’t used anymore. Down to the names that still live on the tip of his tongue, even if he never says them anymore.

Zayn’s heart lurches when he sees the small _Niall_ ; the last one to try and get in touch with him. Of course he was. Of course he couldn’t take a fucking hint. The boulder that Zayn has been carrying around in his stomach for a long time now returns with a vengeance.

It’s hard to swallow. Zayn taps the message and stares at the messages from months ago that he had never bothered responding to.

_Z, talk to me_

_Please?_

And then, an hour later:

_Zayn?_

As he stares at the messages glowing up at him in the darkness of his room, his high mind helpfully supplies an image of Niall checking his phone repeatedly, that small frown twisting his lips as he does. Zayn immediately exits the thread and scrolls down just a bit more. A few innocuous messages flash by before _Liam_ pops up.

Since he’s already started this misadventure, he might as well tumble down the full length of the rabbit hole. He takes another hit and presses the thread.

_I don’t get it_

**I don’t care**

_Fine. Have a nice life_

God, even all this time later Liam knows exactly how to piss him off. The hot bubbling anger mixed with sour stinging hurt is not a new ride for Zayn to be on, but his chest is empty. It has been for weeks now, and no amount of drinking or fucking has filled it. He thinks he misses him. Them.

What a god damn situation.

Right underneath _Liam_ is _Harry_. Zayn stubs out the finished joint and glares at the name. He remembers exactly what the last message he got from him was.

_Wishing you all the best with what you have to do_

Zayn had nearly thrown his phone at the wall when he had gotten that. Like Harry is so much better than he is. Like he’s deigning to come down off his high horse and be the better person. In a selfish, twisted way, Zayn always thought he deserved more—that their relationship deserved more from Harry.

Angrily, self-righteously—(lonely)—Zayn scrolls down past two more unimportant threads until he reaches _Louis_. Swallowing around something that feels suspiciously like a lump in his throat, and blinking against an uncomfortable prickling at the corners of his eyes, he presses the name that is positively glaring up at him.

_Go fuck yourself Malik_

_Don’t ever speak to me again_

So fucking ironic isn’t it? If this were another time, if he were in another place and couldn’t sleep, he and Louis would be blazing right now. But now the picture of Louis that comes to mind is him with furious, red-stained cheeks and eyes like chips of ice. A lot of words were thrown around that day. A lot of tears were shed on all parts. Zayn can recall with painful accuracy feeling like he was going to die that day.

Maybe part of him did.

Lastly, the groupchat that he could never bring himself to delete, even during his rages. It’s been barren for a long time now. Sometimes, Zayn thinks about the fact that they probably have a new one without him. Sometimes, Zayn hates them. No correlation.

_Liam: Worried about ya Z_

_Harry: Pick up your phone_

_Louis: Where the fuck are you??_

_Louis: Stop ignoring us you dick_

_Niall: Miss you buddy_

Zayn types out a message into the box, months too late, eons too late—but doesn’t hit send.

**Miss you guys too…**

He wonders for a wild minute what would happen if he sent this message. If he just threw caution to the wind and sent a stoned, 2 AM confession.

He can only imagine the swift punch to the jaw he would receive from Louis.

“And I’m still mad at you,” Zayn growls at his phone, although the ache in his chest pulses in response.

And yet. And yet…

He exits the groupchat and spends the next two minutes worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and scrolling back and forth between names. His heart is pounding and his hands are shaking but eventually he picks a name and types out a message.

**Hey**

“Fuck it,” Zayn says for the second time that night, and hits send.


End file.
